


057. Fever

by xavierurban



Series: quick-writes [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Misunderstanding, Sickfic, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake's Missing Spleen, not exactly but that's the misunderstanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xavierurban/pseuds/xavierurban
Summary: He feelsawful. Why does he feel awful?Sure, he’s been up for the past 52 hours, and sure, he might’ve gotten nicked across the calf with a jagged, broken beer bottle a few nights back, but that’s hardly the sort of injury to put someone down for the count like this.
Relationships: Implied/Referenced Ra's al Ghul/Timothy Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: quick-writes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149884
Comments: 10
Kudos: 219





	057. Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for implications of rape/fear of rape - Tim's fever causes him to misconstrue what's happening to him, but there is no sexual content in this story. That said, you _could_ choose to interpret that it has happened in the past or at least that Tim believes it be an active threat.
> 
> Like with the previous ficlet, a teen rating would probably suffice, but given the subject matter, I've gone with mature to be on the safe side.

Tim is cold.

No, scratch that - Tim is _freezing_.

It makes no sense. The thermostat is right in front of him, and it’s _clearly_ cranked up to 80 degrees. And that’s on top of the thick sweatshirt he’s wearing over a long-sleeve shirt. He’s _literally_ wearing long johns under his jogging pants.

Repeat: it makes no sense.

Maybe the stupid thing is busted? Tim sighs, a long, drawn-out, and forlorn sound, and increases the temperature another six degrees. His temple itches as he turns away, shuffling back towards his desk, and Tim reaches up to scratch it. His fingers come back damp with sweat, and he frowns as he stares down at them. His eyelids feel heavy, like opening them after every blink requires some Herculean feat, and Tim sighs again as he lowers his hand and slides into his desk chair.

Reaching straight past the can of Red Bull on the desk, Tim grabs a bottle of water and twists the cap off before greedily downing the entire thing, not caring about the water that spills down from the corners of his mouth to drip down his chin and his neck. He’s just so _parched_. He groans as he drops the empty bottle to the floor, nudging it under his desk with the tips of his toes, and then folds himself over to press his forehead against the desk.

“Fuck.”

He feels _awful_. Why does he feel awful?

Sure, he’s been up for the past 52 hours, and _sure_ , he might’ve gotten nicked across the calf with a jagged, broken beer bottle a few nights back, but that’s hardly the sort of injury to put someone down for the count like this.

Tim groans again and turns his head to the side, staring blankly across the room.

Okay, so maybe it’s the sleep thing, then. Yeah, it’s only been 52 hours this time, _but_ , in all fairness, he’d only gotten six hours between this and his last 36-hour stint.

He thinks about the surveillance footage sitting on his hard-drive, waiting for him to wade his way through it, and about the R&D reports he needs to read for work, and the dozens of case files that need attention. He doesn’t have _time_ to sleep, but he’s not exactly getting anything done like this, is he?

Fine. _Fine_.

He’ll just take a nap - a _short_ one - and then maybe he’ll order some kind of delivery for dinner. Food would probably help, right? But first…

First, he’ll rest his eyes for a few minutes.

– – – –

Tim moans weakly, turning his head to press against the warm palm on his forehead. There’s a low rumbling noise coming from above him, but placing it feels like an impossibility right now. His eyelids are so _heavy_ , refusing to open more than a crack, and Tim can’t make out much. He thinks maybe he should be worried, but it feels… muted. If he has been captured, he’s not exactly in any state to be trying to make a daring escape.

Drugged, probably. That would make sense.

Doesn’t explain that fingers carding through his hair, though.

Or maybe it does. Tim shivers and gives a low whine at that thought, but trying to toss his head or buck out of the arms that are holding him doesn’t work. His body is disappointingly unresponsive.

That rumbling sound comes back, but it’s not really any clearer this time.

Fuck. Captured or not, this isn’t working.

Tears sting at his eyes, and Tim is glad that he can’t open them so that it will be harder for them to fall. Fuck, he’s so useless. He can’t even remember _how_ he got captured. He’s…

He’s pretty sure he was at home.

Which means he’s probably right. It probably _is_ Ra’s, and that’s why he’s not in more pain, that’s why he’s getting gentle touches instead of torture. Tim shivers again, his heartbeat kicking up a notch.

He opens his mouth to tell Ra’s to fuck off, to leave him alone, to let him _go_ , but he’s not sure he succeeds. The words sound garbled and unclear to his own ears, at least. It makes Ra’s still for a moment, though, the fingers in Tim’s hair trailing down his cheek to his chin to tip his head back - for all the good that does. He still can’t make his eyes open.

 _Useless_.

“Lem’go,” he mumbles, his breath hitching when the fingers disappear again only to come back and brush away the moisture beneath his closed eyes. Ra’s starts walking again, and Tim gives a pitiful whine.

What the Hell did Ra’s drug him with this time? Christ.

His mind spins away from him soon after that, and he barely notices as he’s set down and a strap is pulled across his chest and another across his waist. He gives a belated whine of protest once the strap is already secured, and then the hand in his hair is back and being followed by the press of lips against his forehead. His skin feels like its crawling.

Suddenly, he’s _freezing_ , cool air blowing against sweaty skin, and- and-

He was dressed, wasn’t he? Tim doesn’t think he is anymore.

He can’t stop the tears this time, letting them spill down his cheeks as he slumps against the back of the chair he’s been strapped to.

– – – – 

Tim falls in and out of sleep for what feels like an eternity, and nothing starts to make any more sense. He’s been moved onto a bed of some sort, and there are no restraints this time. Which would be great if he could just get himself to move, to sit up. Hell, he’d take lifting his hands to throw a punch at this rate.

Eventually, he can hear voices, can make out the way they rise and fall with the inflection of their words, but Tim can’t make out the words themselves nor who the speakers are. There’s also a soft, steady beeping coming from somewhere nearby. It’s a heart-rate monitor, he’s sure, but Tim doesn’t understand why he’s hooked up to it.

Maybe he wasn’t supposed to react this strongly to whatever Ra’s had him drugged with. How considerate of him to provide medical attention for a situation of his own doing, then.

He startles when something wet touches his forehead and cool water drips down his temples.

“Tim,” Bruce murmurs, “can you hear me?”

Tim’s lips part and it feels like agony. They’re so dry, so _cracked_ , and all he manages is a choked whine.

Wait.

_Wait._

Back up. Rewind.

“Bruce?” he rasps, and then promptly starts coughing.

“That’s right, son,” Bruce confirms, and Tim is so elated that he doesn’t even question the straw pressing in between his lips. He drinks greedily, whining again when the blessed, perfect, delicious water is taken away from him. “Shh,” Bruce soothes, and Tim melts into the hand in his hair, “easy, sweetheart.”

Tim is quiet for a while, reveling in the feeling of Bruce’s hand in his hair and the safety of having been rescued. He startles awake eventually, not even realising he’d dozed off again.

“Ra’s?” he slurs. Bruce’s hand stills for a moment before his fingers resume their massage.

“Ra’s was never here, Tim,” Bruce says firmly, and Tim feels his brow crease. That can’t be right. He definitely saw- No. Heard? Or, maybe…

Ra’s had taken him, hadn’t he?

The heart-rate monitor starts to beep faster, and Bruce swears softly under his breath.

“Tim,” he says. “Timothy, son, listen to me. There’s no Ra’s. You had- _have_ a fever, and you overheated yourself. The cut on your leg got infected, and you were dehydrated.” A finger taps at the top of his hand. “You’re on antibiotics and fluids to help with that.”

Tim takes a minute to breath, listening as the monitor slows again in response.

A fever. A _fever_.

God, he’s so stupid.

How could he not recognize the signs? How did he not think that a cut from dirty glass might have caused an infection?

How long ago had he stopped taking his daily antibiotics?

He can’t remember.

Tim cringes. Bruce must be so disappointed in him.

Sighing softly, Tim forces his eyes open for what feels like the first time in days. They’re gritty and foggy, and Tim can’t help the soft whimper that escapes him when Bruce gently brings the cloth down to wipe them for him.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse. Bruce frowns.

Here comes the lecture.

“You scared the Hell out of me, Tim,” he says quietly, and Tim blinks dumbly at him. Waits for the rest. “And we’re going to talk later about why you thought you’d been taken by Ra’s of all people,” he continues, and Tim winces as he averts his gaze, “but I’m just glad you’re okay. I have no idea how long your fever was in the danger zone for. You’re lucky I found you when I did.”

“Sorry,” Tim says again, and Bruce sighs. Leans in to press a kiss to Tim’s forehead before he replaces the damp cloth. Tim hums quietly, his eyes closing despite his best efforts.

“It’s okay,” Bruce murmurs. “We can talk later. Go back to sleep, son.”

Tim hums again. His fingers twitch, but he only manages to move his hand an inch or so across the mattress. His brow furrows as his lips turn down in a pout that only deepens when Bruce chuckles. But warm fingers slide between his own a moment later, and Tim puts every ounce of his will into making himself squeeze Bruce’s hand for a few seconds.

“Rest, Robin,” Bruce orders, tone slipping over the edge into his Batman register, and the command settles over Tim’s mind and body with ease. His hand goes slack as his breathing evens out, but Tim isn’t worried. He knows Bruce will still be right there holding onto him when he wakes.


End file.
